


Break (And We Are Here Together)

by luninosity



Series: The Epic Universe of Porn, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Trauma, and Love [10]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bad Sex, Caning, Comfort, Confessions, Consensual Kink, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, Hurt!James, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, Love, M/M, Past Abuse, Porn With Plot, Safewords, Sexual Content, Teasing, Trust, worried!Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:59:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Um…explicit sex, established consensual BDSM relationship, the boys trying something that turns out to be an unexpected trigger for James. Warnings for mention of abuse in James’s past, all the hurt/comfort ever, and the magical healing powers of sex with Michael.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break (And We Are Here Together)

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be me filling in a missing scene, in which James and Michael have a couple of days off and experiment with some things. The story had other ideas. Which involved all the emotions, all the hurt/comfort, some rather kinky interludes even for me, some revelations about James’s past "relationship", and more comfort. Title from Eve 6’s “Lost & Found”: _the monster in the closet, when the light’s turned on/ is just a jacket on a hanger and the fear is gone/ and the world keeps turning, sun keeps burning/ we are the lost and found/ gonna make it through another day_

It was a good bed. A friendly bed. James had proclaimed as much within thirty seconds of encountering it, having flung himself onto the mattress, stretched arms and legs and hair in every possible direction, and sighed, a noise of lusciously sinful abandon that Michael decided instantly ought to be illegal outside their hotel room.

“I might never move again. This is _fantastic_.”

“That might preclude us doing some other things. And you like those things.”

“But I also like this bed. I adore this bed. And it adores me. Come join us.”

“You two look perfectly happy together,” Michael’d commented, “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” and he’d meant to go hang up clothing in the closet until James felt guilty and came to help, but instead found himself dropping their bags and walking over to stand next to the luxurious tower of pillows and bedposts without really deciding to.

James closed his eyes and burrowed more deeply into the billows of the mattress, and his hair tumbled into his face, and he looked so damn blissful, and Michael wasn’t jealous of hotel furniture, he _wasn’t_ , not at all.

He’d jumped on top of James for all of those totally not-jealous reasons anyway. James, because he hadn’t been looking, let out a startled huff of air as Michael’s weight landed on him, and then smiled. “You did decide to come join us, then.”

“You were having far too much fun without me. Not the point of this vacation.”

“No, I can, ah, tell what point _you’re_ trying to make…” James had wriggled gleefully under him, not making any real effort to get away. “Did you pick this hotel on purpose? Because of the beds? That’s going to be excellent, for the handcuffs…”

James was, quite possibly, trying to kill him. One more sentence, one more ecstatic little movement of pleasure, and death by sexual desire could happen. Spontaneous combustion, just like that.

He looked at the gracefully old-fashioned four posts of the bed, and tried to remember how to breathe, not as easy as it sounded when he couldn’t help picturing James tied to all of them.

James had asked him a question. He really ought to answer.

“Um…partly. I did like that idea. But mostly it was nearby…since we only have two days…and the reviews said it’d be nice…”

“I love that you do research about which hotel to take me to for sex. And I love that we always end up someplace that feels like a Victorian fairytale. Because you like wood and leather and opulent beds. Oh, and I love you, of course.”

“Thank you for that.” So he might have an appreciation for expensive textures and discreet locations and elegance, aged whiskey and cigar smoke and sweetness hanging in the air, and James in his bed. None of those were bad things.

James, lying comfortably beneath him, all jewel-blue eyes and brandy-colored hair and cinnamon freckles, had smiled. As decadent as anything Michael could’ve ever dreamed about. More.

Of course he’d happily have sex with James in their usual hotel room, back near the film set, the official cast and crew accommodations while filming. He’d happily have sex with James more or less anywhere, including, memorably, Matthew’s directorial golf cart. But they had two full days off, while Matthew tormented Kevin and the various members of the Hellfire Club, and so when he’d glanced at James and suggested they take advantage of that break, James’d enthusiastically and immediately agreed.

Besides, there _was_ a point to this particular interlude, James’s terrible pun notwithstanding. A reason he’d appreciated the bed, and the discretion.

He looked back down at James. “You do still want to…”

“You can’t tell?”

“Right now? We haven’t even had dinner. We’ve only just—we haven’t even unpacked!”

“Oh, well. If you’d rather have food, and put away your shirts, and not spank me after all…”

“James,” Michael’d said, mostly a groan, and kissed him, soundly, until those lips stopped teasing and parted for his tongue, welcoming the invasion.

And then he’d rolled over and sat up, and grinned, at the indignant expression in sapphire eyes. “Michael—”

“We agreed that you deserved some sort of punishment, right? I know you haven’t forgotten. I think you should put away the shirts. Go ahead.”

“I—you—oh, that’s not fair.”

“You did say I could do whatever I wanted, to you. And right now I think I feel like making you wait. Maybe after dinner.”

“ _Really_ not fair.”

“You said yes.”

“Clearly I wasn’t thinking straight. Must’ve been your fault.” But James sat up, too, and slid off the bed—Michael noticed, with some amusement, that the mattress was too tall for him, and his feet hadn’t quite reached the floor—and then grinned, wickedly, and added, “sir.”

“You’re not helping,” Michael’d said, and James’d laughed, and started excavating their bags, and somehow that’d turned into a performance, James bending down, straightening up, stretching out on tiptoes to hang shirts when he didn’t actually need to, and Michael hadn’t been able to wait after all and had lunged off the bed and tossed James back onto it.

So now they were here. Himself, looking down at James, acres of bare skin decorated by swirling freckles, early-evening light, and, importantly, the metallic glitter of handcuffs, ornamenting slim wrists.

James smiled at him again, calm under all the excitement, that elated serenity that made Michael’s heart beat faster, every time. James trusted him with this. Wanted to give him this. Loved him.

He bit his lip. Didn’t let himself want to cry, because that’d be too sentimental, but he did say, softly, “I love you,” and James looked at him consideringly and then pursed those lips and offered him a kiss, into the air, minus the use of captive hands.

Michael had to laugh. Incredible. As always. How had he ever deserved to be this lucky?

“Not that I’m complaining,” James observed, “but I am curious. I could’ve sworn we were talking about you spanking me, earlier, and that’s not going to work, in this position…”

“No, _you_ were talking about me spanking you. I never said yes.”

James’s lips formed an “Oh,” but the sound didn’t make it out.

“You like that too much. And you do remember why we’re doing this, right?”

A whisper of breath, James taking in that tone, the reminder. “Yes, sir.”

“Exactly.” James did laugh, out loud, at that. Michael grinned, understanding why.

He wasn’t genuinely trying to punish James, of course. He’d never do that. Would never touch James in anger. He’d not been entirely happy about that moment, three nights previously, but it hadn’t been James’s fault, or mostly not, and nothing’d happened in any case, not really. It was only an excuse. The flimsiest of reasons.

He ran a hand along James’s arms, extended and displayed for him. James shivered.

“You can wait. In fact, I think that’s what we’re going to do. Control, James. That was the issue, if you recall.”

It had been. Nothing serious, of course, and everyone else’d been equally intoxicated too, and no one’d taken any notice whatsoever, though Kevin had eyed James a little interestedly, the next morning, and then almost visibly shrugged and decided it was none of his business, though that might also have been the result of Michael’s scowl.

It’d been a late night, all of them crammed into the hotel bar and celebrating a successful day and cheering Lucas on in his doomed attempt to out-drink Zoe, and James had been laughing, letting people buy him drinks and talk him into reenacting Charles’s pub escapades, and Michael’d been doing his best to keep up, and at some point they’d run out of alcohol and Kevin’d pointed at James and said, “your round.”

James, comfortably settled in against Michael’s side, with Michael’s hand in his hair, had looked up from an earnest conversation with Edi about whether Charles Xavier would’ve liked Gene Roddenberry, and blinked, owl-eyed and inebriated, for a second, and then said, agreeably, “Fine!”

“Are you sure you can stand up?” Michael’d inquired, or thought he’d inquired. The words weren’t as lucid as he’d’ve liked. Maybe no more martinis. Or no more after the next round. One of them had to stay relatively sober, and it wasn’t going to be James, a fact which had become even more clear after James looked at him and said, “I think I have to climb over you to get to the bar, do you mind not moving?”

He’d said, “What?” not because James was wrong—they were challenging the spatial dimensions of the booth as it was—but because the word _not_ was confusing, in that question. “I could move. Or get up. If you wanted.”

“Oh, I definitely want,” James’d said, and proceeded to swing one leg over him and then stop, cheerfully straddling Michael’s lap. In public. In a hotel bar. Surrounded by their castmates, who, considerately, paused to wolf-whistle and applaud.

“Lap dance!” someone’d called, from the back. James had grinned, and done something complicated and sinuous with his hips, and getting up was all at once precisely the issue at hand. As it were.

“Don’t you two have a hotel room?”

“Are you complaining? Enjoy the show!”

“James, do you really need that shirt on?”

“I thought they were buying us drinks…”

“I think they’re busy.”

James had looked down at Michael, blue eyes laughing, suddenly warm and bright in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol. And Michael’d told him, “I love you,” and put both hands on James’s hips, holding on.

“No sex on our table!”

James’d twisted around, almost falling off of Michael’s lap in the process, and tossed a vaguely obscene gesture in Nicholas’s direction. And then, evidently just to make the point, had rocked his hips into Michael’s, which, yes, absolutely, but also no, not here, not in public, not now.

“James,” he’d said, “later,” and, when James didn’t seem to be listening, tightened his hands over those hips, which got James to blink in surprise at the forcefulness.

“Not now, okay? Ten minutes. You can wait.” Once he could stand up without embarrassing himself. And possibly once James sobered up a little bit.

James had considered this offer, head tipped to one side. “Is that an order?”

Oh god. No one else’d heard that, right? He’d glanced around, but fortunately James hadn’t said it very loudly, and the only person who seemed to be looking at them quizzically was Kevin, and Kevin wouldn’t say anything.

“James,” he’d whispered, hopefully also unnoticeably low, “yes, okay, but we’re in public, and that’s not—not for here, you know that, that’s for us. Private. Bedroom. All right?”

James seemed to be thinking about that, which wasn’t as reassuring as it could’ve been. Admittedly Michael probably hadn’t been as articulate as he needed to be, given the martinis and the panic, either.

Other people were eying them curiously, no doubt wondering whether James was in fact going to go find them the promised round of drinks any time soon, so Michael took a deep breath, hoped that James would pick up on the need to change the mood, and said, out loud, “You’re supposed to be getting drinks, James, get off me and buy alcohol for the nice people.”

“Thank you!”

“Can I have a ride next?”

“James might kill you.”

“James is too nice to kill me, that’s why I asked.”

“I am,” James said, in January’s direction, “but Michael’s not, so you’re lucky I’m here,” and then, to Michael, “did you say get off?”

“Not now,” Michael’d said, “now you’re supposed to get them drinks,” and, when James laughed and didn’t move right away, had used one hand to smack him on the ass, unthinkingly. And then, at the expression in blue eyes, had realized that, first, he himself was much more drunk than he’d thought; second, that if he was that far gone, James had to be much worse off, and third, Michael in that case had only himself to blame for whatever consequences might follow his momentary indiscretion.

James’d licked his lips. Slowly, and exquisitely sensual, pure sex with ocean-hued eyes and unruly hair. Had murmured, looking right at him, deliberately, “Yes, sir.”

And then he’d hopped off Michael’s lap and headed to the bar, and Michael’d tried to inhale a lungful of air through the last sip of his martini, a maneuver that’d ended with Kevin exuberantly and unhelpfully thumping him on the back.

He’d hauled James off to their hotel suite the second those blue eyes’d come back from the bar, and proceeded to fuck him on the blandly unshockable sitting-area carpet because they’d utterly failed to make it to the bed, and James had moaned his name, when Michael’d held him down and informed him that this, _this_ , was only ever about the two of them, private and unshared, no one else getting to see James  like this ever, and there _would_ be consequences, and James had gasped “yes—” and then ended up incoherent, very satisfactorily so.

So that was the reason. If they needed one. He suspected they didn’t, but James had grinned delightedly when reminded of those promised consequences, and so naturally Michael had to follow through.

He smiled at James. He had plans.

“We did decide you needed to learn to behave. I think leaving you here, like this, for a minute or two, would help, wouldn’t it?”

James blinked at him. Several times. “You…want to leave?”

“Just out there.” He waved a hand at the sitting room of the suite. “So we can work on your patience. Fair?”

“Um…yes, I suppose. I’m going to be every kind of frustrated, you know.”

“I know.” He ran a hand over James’s hip, and then, teasing, that eager cock, already standing up and hard and flushed with arousal. When he took the hand away, James whimpered.

“All right. I’m going to be right outside. Two minutes. I want you to wait here, for me, and think about what you did.” This time he played with one nipple, pinching, lightly, stopping after a second.

James tried to glare at him, unsuccessfully because of all the palpable desire in the air. Michael raised both eyebrows. Took the hand away entirely. “Are you asking me for five minutes, then?”

A not really annoyed sigh. “No. Sir.”

“Good. Stay here, then.” He hopped off the bed. Heard James mutter, as he was nearly out the door, “As if I wanted to move,” and shouted back, “ _Three_ minutes, James!”

If there was an answer, that time—and there probably was—James at least had decided not to let him hear it. Michael grinned, to himself, and then stood there in the other room, beside the couch, and wondered what on earth he was supposed to do with himself for the next three eternal minutes.

The couch cushions smirked at his dilemma. He glared, and sat down on them. They deserved it.

Three minutes. Well, two and a half, now. He could survive that long. He hoped.

He stared at the whiteness of the wall for a while. James was on the other side of that wall. Handcuffed to the bed. Naked. Waiting for him. No doubt imagining everything Michael might be planning, feeling that anticipation, those cravings, race through his bones, intensifying with each second.

_Why_ had he said three whole minutes, again?

He caught himself halfway to his feet, flopped back down on the pointedly unspeaking couch, tried not to groan out loud, and then did anyway because he’d managed to land on what was at the moment an extremely awkward spot. Damn.

They were doing this because they wanted to. Because James’d agreed. Because it wasn’t punishment, it was pleasure. And they both liked that. He knew they did. Knew how much they both enjoyed the wait, the drawn-out sensations, pushed to the sharpest edge of denial, James falling into total surrender and rewarded with glittering ecstasy.

He stared at the clock. A minute and forty seconds. He might conceivably die of frustration before then.

James was being very quiet, in the other room. No clues, no expressions, no hints about what he might be thinking. Nothing for Michael to hear.

Might be a good thing. The presence of that splendid voice, reaching out into the room, would likely be enough to snap his already failing resolve.

_Less_ than a minute. He could handle that. He sat up. Willed the time to pass more quickly. Put his feet up on the coffee table, then back on the floor, then on the couch, then heard his mother’s voice telling him to stop fidgeting and get his shoes off the furniture, then despised himself a little for thinking of his mother in these specific circumstances.

He kicked off the shoes anyway. And his socks. Just because he felt like it.

The carpet felt soft, and fluffy, and sumptuous, against his bare toes.

Maybe they could have sex on the fluffy carpet. Maybe James wouldn’t mind sharing that sensation, too.

Thirty seconds, and he stopped himself from trying to stand up again and stuck his traitorous feet beneath one of the couch cushions for emphasis. He was very sure it laughed.

Except that sound wasn’t the furniture mocking him. It’d been an actual sound.

It had been a very _small_ sound, like an indrawn breath, the noise of someone trying not to make any noise at all. But audible nonetheless.

He found himself frowning, slightly. Swung his legs back down to the ground, and waited, senses prickling, uneasy.

One more near-silent little noise. A catch like broken bone, the skip of a heartbeat; and he was on his feet, the alarm pounding in his veins even though he couldn’t’ve said why.

And then he heard James gasp, voice almost unrecognizable, “Michael…?”

He was already sprinting for the bedroom door. Each step shouted at him, the footfalls shrieking that he should never have tried this, shouldn’t’ve left James alone.

He wasn’t wrong.

He flung himself onto the bed. His hands were trembling so badly he could barely undo the handcuffs, where they’d kept James trapped, fastened to the dense weight of the furniture.

James tried to talk, shook his head, and crumpled into Michael’s arms, in tears now, sobbing. The saltwater splashed against Michael’s neck, and seared through his shirt. Like a brand. Like metal burning with fire.

He’d hurt James. He hadn’t meant to, had never meant to, but he had.

“James,” he whispered. That beloved name burned, too, on the way out of his throat. “James, I’m so sorry, I love you, I didn’t mean—I should never have left you, please don’t cry, I’m here, I love you, I’m sorry,” and James managed to get out “please…” and then shook his head again and collapsed back into tears, shaking from head to toe with the force of them.

Please what? Please hold him? Stop holding him? Apologize again, always, for the rest of their lives?

“I love you,” he breathed again, helplessly, and James just kept crying, not loudly but continuously, as if he’d never stop, as if everything inside had broken loose and come unmoored.

Oh god. He’d hurt James. He’d known better. Should have known better. Should have known that James, so uncertain of his own worth anyway, needed Michael there to anchor him, to stand beside him, through everything and especially this.

“I’m sorry, James, I…” His throat tightened. Made words impossible, for a second. He rubbed hands over James’s back, instead. Attempted to caress every freckle, to remind them all that they weren’t abandoned, that he loved them, that he was here after all. Too late, of course, but all he had left to try.

“I love you. I do. I’m not leaving you, I wasn’t leaving you, I was right outside, and I was about to come back, and we’re never doing this again, I’m never leaving you alone again. I promise. That _is_ a promise. Please don’t—I’m so sorry. If you…” He swallowed. It hurt. “If you can’t…if you can’t forgive me…I’ll understand. I promise that, too.” No answer. But maybe James’s breathing had gotten a little calmer, inhales and exhales fluttering over his skin.

Of course that’d be the sentence that got through, that made sense. Of course James couldn’t forgive him. Not for this.

Heartbreak tasted like salt, he thought. Like the wetness of those tears. It stung, pouring into gaping wounds.

“Michael…” James murmured, into his shoulder, in between fading sobs. That voice was unsteady, too. Velvet all shredded by watermarks and sharp-edged stone.

“You—just breathe, you don’t have to talk, it’s all right. You’re all right.” Not true, but if he could say it aloud, if he could sound convincing enough, the universe might be kind and let it be so. “You’ll be all right, okay? And I’m here. If you want me. You’re safe.”

“… _if_ I want you?” James turned his head. Blinked. Breathed in, unevenly. “Please don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.” He held James as carefully as he could, in the middle of the broad expanse of comfortless bed. “I promise. Not ever again, if you want that.”

“Yes…”

“Yes, then. Not going anywhere. I love you.”

“I…love you, too. I’m sorry.”

_“What?!”_

James flinched. Michael silently cursed himself in at least three different languages, and then did it again, for good measure. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Why would you—why would you say—”

“I _am_. I should have—you told me to wait and I couldn’t, I couldn’t wait for you, I needed—you might have been gone, you might have left, and I couldn’t—”

“Oh, James…” He ran a hand through all that hair. It coiled like messy silk around his fingers, clinging painfully close. “I wouldn’t. I would never leave you. I love you.” If he said so enough times, maybe someday James might believe it could be true.

“I know. I do know. But you did—I know you didn’t, not really, but you _did_ , and I know I wasn’t being…rational, logical, I don’t know, and I’m sorry.” The last word ended up shrouded in one last worldshattering cloudburst. Michael breathed, “Shh, it’s all right, I love you,” again, and wrapped his arms more tightly around that smaller body.

James wasn’t all that small, of course. Wasn’t fragile, or delicate, not with all those compact muscles and that boundless energy. But he felt small right now, sobbing in Michael’s arms.

“It’s not your fault. I should never have asked you for this. I know about your—I know you aren’t—oh, no, don’t, don’t look like that, it’s _not_ your fault, James, please!” He could see the anguish in blue eyes, cracking sapphires, when James looked up at him, at that.

“You’re amazing. Always. I know you have a hard time believing that. But I mean it when I say so, all right? Every word. Every time. And this was so stupid. On my side, I mean. I was only—I only thought—you like it when I tell you to wait. When I ask you to see how long you can wait, for me. And I just—James, I’m so sorry. I know I can’t fix this, but I can apologize, as many times as it’ll take for you to hear me, okay?”

Please hear me, he thought, despairingly. Please. Please don’t look at me with those eyes and tell me I’ve broken everything. Please don’t look away from me and say nothing and tell me that way that I’ve broken you.

James took a deep breath. Said, into the folds of Michael’s shirt, “I’m just scared, I think.”

It wasn’t _I hate you_. Or _please leave now_. Or _never touch me again_.

It wasn’t good. But it was James talking to him.

“Scared of what? Can you tell me?”

“I…don’t know. Exactly. You—you might have left. You might still—I wasn’t good enough, I didn’t listen to you, I—”

“Oh, god,” Michael said, out loud this time, and shook his head, and then shook James, slightly, very gently, too. “Did I ever tell you that? Look at me. Please. When did I—me, James, not anyone else, not even yourself—when did _I_ ever say you weren’t good enough?”

“You…”

“I didn’t. I never have. Right?”

“I…yes?”

“And I’ve never told you I wouldn’t love you, if you couldn’t do something. I want you to tell me, if you’re scared, or if you need to stop, or if _you_ want _me_ to do anything. I’ve told you that, right?”

“…yes. Yes, you have. I’m sorry—”

“Stop that.” He was holding James’s shoulders; he squeezed them, not hard, only a reminder. “ _I’m_ apologizing to _you_ , all right? Because I…because you trust me with this, with you, and I did something wrong, and I hurt you, and I’m sorry. And I never want you to feel scared, with me. Or because of me. I love you.” This time he touched James’s cheek, lightly, thumbtip brushing over wet and pale skin. Wanted to ask whether James believed that, that final sentence. But was too afraid of the potential reply.

“Yes.”

“Yes…yes what? Sorry.”

“Yes, you love me. And I love you.” James breathed out. The release seemed to come from someplace very deep down, further than Michael could imagine, somewhere in his bones, his heart, his soul.

Maybe James meant the words. They sounded true. Like everything Michael wanted so much to believe.

“And also…yes, you’re right. I do trust you. So…if you say it isn’t me, it’s not my fault—”

“It isn’t!”

“—then maybe that’s right, too.” James tipped his head up, for the first time. Blue eyes met Michael’s. Bruised, red-rimmed, framed by water-dark eyelashes like portrait frames. But open, and vividly real.

“It was just—I couldn’t—I couldn’t see the time. From here. And I trust you—I do—but it felt like—” Another stop, that voice skidding to a halt, veering away from those words, leaving aching gaps in failed sentences. A headshake.

“It felt like _longer_ ,” James finished, finally, quietly, and the pain in that word dragged heavy leaden weights around Michael’s heart and tugged it into the abyss.

He looked hopelessly at the clock, sitting placidly on the bedside table. He had known it was there; he’d thought James would be watching it, the same way Michael’d been staring at his. But it was at just fractionally the wrong angle. James, tied down, wouldn’t’ve been able to read the numbers. They glowed at him, reproachfully.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, again, because there was nothing else left to say. “James, I—what can I do? What do you want me to do? For you?” He stroked a hand through the hair, one more time, because James seemed to like that, or had always liked that, had used to like that, from him, before.

James shut his eyes. One last escaping tear streaked a path over wet freckles, down to that chin, and fell off, vanishing into the night. “I don’t know.”

And Michael’d thought he’d learned the taste of heartbreak already. He’d been wrong about that too.

James opened his eyes again. “I…that’s not what I meant. Or at least…not how I meant it. I didn’t mean _you_ couldn’t do anything. You are. This is…I do believe you, about everything, about loving me, I just…I feel…like I can’t find anything to hold on to, right now. Nothing that’s…not precarious. Inside. And I don’t know what to do.”

“James…” He was crying, too, the overflow of shock, of horror, of endless remorse. The tears bounced off his eyelashes, and hit James’s arm, leaving irregular hot splashes over bare skin. One more blow to apologize for.

“I love you. I do. I would never leave you. And you…” He ran his hands over freckled shoulders, across all the fear-tensed muscles, back over to James’s arms and down, and collected both unprotesting hands into his own and squeezed, tightly.

“You can hold on to me. If you need an anchor. I promise I’ll be here. I _will_. And I’ll hold on to you. For as long as you need that, okay? Probably even longer. And if you’re feeling…precarious…” One more squeeze. “You can feel that, too, can’t you? Me touching you? You know that’s real. This is real. This is always going to be real. You know that, right?”

James breathed in. Looked down, gaze resting on their joined hands, fingertips wet and Michael’s knuckles turning white from the force of holding on. Their legs were touching, too, the ginger-and-sunshine of James’s freckles bright against the faded fabric of Michael’s jeans, the pale cotton snowdrifts of sheets beneath their bodies.

The blue eyes didn’t lift, studying the places where skin met skin. But those hands squeezed back, not hard, curling around his.

Michael’s heart turned over, in his chest. Did an absurd little flip, like hope, like springtime, maybe, arriving in the air.

He wanted to ask, wanted to whisper James’s name aloud, wanted to hear the reverberation of it around them, but James was breathing again, and so Michael ended up only listening to the sound, in and out and in, cadence echoed in his own lungs.

James did glance up, then. Smiled at him, rainfall approaching parched and thirsty ground. “Yes.”

“…yes?”

“You asked me a question. Whether I could feel this. You. Holding me. Yes, I can.”

“You…James, I—I love you. For fucking _always_. And you—you saying that, being strong enough to—you know you amaze me, James. Every single day. Every time I look at you. Every time you tell me that you can want me, that you do want me, that you’ll let me make you smile—I’ll hold you forever if that’ll make you smile. Like this.” His fingers were occupied and he wasn’t planning to let go, so he tilted his head, lifted his eyebrows, hoped that James would figure out the gesture: the way you’re smiling now, at me.

“You said,” James murmured, blue eyes looking into his, “probably even longer than I’d need.”

“I did.”

“Because you want to.”

“Because I want to. Because…you want me to? Maybe? If you do?”

“Yes. I think…you asked me what I want. What we can do. I might want…I’d like to get up. Out of the bed. Maybe out of the room. Someplace else. Not forever, just…for a few minutes. Is that—all right?”

“Is that—of course it is! Of course, James, you don’t think—I’m not going to say no! And you don’t have to ask!”

“I…think maybe I do. Right now. I feel…” James bit his lip. Hard enough to leave indentations, bruises in pink flesh. Michael shook his head, agony thundering through his veins, and wondered whether he should lift one hand, soothe those lips, but James’s fingers were still clinging to his.

“You feel like what? Can you stand up? We can move, there’s a couch, there’s a whole other room, it’ll be happy to see you, come on…”

He got James up off the bed, leaving behind tearstains and crushed sheets. Started to walk them toward the door, belatedly remembered something, grabbed the closest blanket. “Here.”

“Oh…because of the windows…thank you.” James curled up against him, on the sofa. Naked, under the protective fabric. Even the hair looked exhausted, falling wearily over his face, sticking to one cheekbone; but the eyes might be saying something like appreciation, Michael thought, studying them as they met his. Blue and fragile and eternal as stained glass, glimmering liquid flowing over time into a different shape, not quite the same but beautiful regardless.

He said as much, out loud—not the entire overly poetic metaphor, of course not, but he needed to tell James one more time that he _was_ beautiful—and James half-smiled, breakable and luminous under warm hotel lamplight and the sparkle of distant cities beyond the open windows.

“I said you might be right about some things, but I’m not ever going to agree with you on that one…”

“Yes, you are. Someday.” He kissed those lips, swiftly, emphatically, making it a vow; James was smiling even more, at the words, and didn’t stop after Michael let him go.

“Someday. You do like promises. About the future. With me.”

“Those aren’t promises,” Michael said, “they’re facts,” and this time James laughed, the flicker of sound leaping out into the light as well, catching in the folds of the blanket, the companionable couch cushions, the quiet walls.

Better. James laughing was better. And a chunk of the ice, in his chest, cracked and fell away and let his heart start beating more freely.

“I feel like…” James looked at his hands again, where they’d ended up resting, on Michael’s chest, on one bicep, because Michael’s arms’d gone around James once they’d settled onto the couch. Lifted one, gazed at it critically, as if expecting fingers to tremble. “I know you didn’t leave. And I wanted to do this, earlier, I mean. I did say yes. I wasn’t expecting—well, obviously I wasn’t. And I don’t know why it was this that did it; we’ve done other things, more kinky things, this wasn’t even that bad…”

“I…kind of have an idea about why. Maybe. You can—please tell me if I’m wrong. You said—actually, no, something that I said. I told you—the first night you ever, um, when you agreed to wear…” He skimmed fingers across James’s throat. James wasn’t wearing the collar, of course, not now; Michael’d considered it briefly, but had thought that that might be too much, with James that helpless, and anyway he hadn’t wanted to associate that with punishment, however playful.

James blinked, swallowed, under his fingertips, now. Intimate. Not pulling away. Trusting him to touch.

“I told you this would always be about both of us, together. And what I did to you tonight…I broke a promise to you, James, and I’m sorry.” He touched James’s chin, lifted it, gently. Wanted to say more: I know you’ve been through this with someone else, someone who never cared if you were alone or in pain or wanting any togetherness. I’m not that person. I promise you I’m not. I’m someone who loves you, and I’m not him.

But he couldn’t promise that, because he had hurt James. Had, with one unconsidered act, knocked away all those foundations James’d been struggling for so many years to rebuild.

That knowledge, the ruin he’d caused, _hurt_. Everywhere. Saying the words hadn’t helped. They’d only crystallized the ache.

He shut his eyes, in the wake of his own sentence. A death sentence, really, it was.

He heard James breathe, in and out. Then again.

And then felt a hand touch his face. Warm fingers, broader than his, and shorter, and he knew without looking the placement of each freckle, spangling pale skin like the gilded threads in a priceless tapestry, a complicated narrative of desire and pain and kindness and love.

“Michael,” James said, thoughtfully, surprisingly calm, “you didn’t leave.”

“I—no, not exactly, but you were right, I _did_ —”

“No, you didn’t. You were already coming back in, weren’t you? Before I asked?”

“Um…I was…yes. Yes, I was, I thought I heard—I’m so sorry, James—”

“Stop that.” The affection, inside that Scottish-gale-and-honey accent, was clear enough, bright enough, that Michael had to open his eyes. And then all that blue certainty, so close, took his breath away.

“You said together. That we should always be doing this together. You didn’t break your promise to me. We agreed to try doing this—what we did, tonight, just now—it does take two of us to agree, you know. And you didn’t leave me. You were thinking about me, the entire time, you were listening, you were making sure I’d be all right, right? You were here. So, still together.”

“James, I—maybe, but—do you believe that? What you’re saying?” He wanted to believe those words, also. Needed them to be true, like water, like air in his lungs. But of course James would say anything, to make him, Michael, feel better. He knew that, too.

James tapped one freckled finger against Michael’s lips, once, twice, teasing, thinking. Michael waited for the third tap, and kissed that restless fingertip when it came, and James focused on him, and smiled.

“I do like you kissing me…and, yes, I think I do. Believe that. I’m not going to pretend I’m all right—I still feel kind of horribly off-balance—but I heard what I said when I said it to you. And it made sense. Did it make sense to you?”

“…yes?” He leaned forward and kissed the corner of James’s mouth, this time, where those lips curved up, continually hinting at the presence of a smile. The ocean currents, in those eyes, got a little warmer, as a result.

“I’m still not leaving you alone. Not ever again. And I am sorry.”

“Not while we’re doing this, anyway. You don’t need to follow me around the film set. And I’m sorry, too. Not about feeling—what I’m feeling—I don’t think I can do anything about that—”

“You shouldn’t ever feel sorry about that.”

“—I love you. Only about not expecting it. Not warning you. I should’ve known. I mean…I do know I’m not…there are some things…well, I’ve told you. About the things. And now that I think about it I really should have known. Or at least guessed this might be a possibility. So—”

“So you still don’t have to apologize.” He kissed the tip of that nose, an apology of his own for the interruption. But he couldn’t let James go on being sorry. “I love you. And I knew, too. At least I know what you’ve told me. I shouldn’t’ve asked. And I know I can’t follow you around on set, and you wouldn’t want me to, but…I would. If you said you wanted me there.”

“I know.” James wiggled into a more comfortable position, in his arms. “You know…it’s kind of a good thing, that this happened. In a way.”

“…how, exactly?”

“Because it did surprise me. Because I wasn’t thinking about—him, or that, or anything except you and wanting you. I’m not fine, I know, but I’m not…you asked me once, a long time ago, if I ever thought about him. About being afraid, in bed. And I told you the answer was sometimes. I think…this, with you…it’s been fewer times. It just doesn’t…come up. In my head.”

“James…”

“I think I could _be_ fine, with you. You know. Someday. That future you keep talking about…”

“I love you,” Michael said, voice a little muffled by James’s hair and how tightly he was holding on, “so fucking much.”

“I know,” James said, into the line of his throat, words tucking themselves into that hollow between neck and shoulder, “I know, I love you too, and you’re wonderful and I’m wonderful and we’re going to be wonderful together, all the time, always. Though, um, I might need to be able to breathe, at some point…”

“Oh, sorry—”

“No. I didn’t say you should let go. Come back here.”

“Like this?”

“Perfect. This…I think this helps. You holding me, like this…you _are_ here. You want me here. With you. And I feel like…this is where I should be. Right here. Being yours.”

“Being mine…James, you—” At which wholly inappropriate point Michael’s stomach, having ceased churning some time ago, chose to make its emptiness known. Loudly.

James stared at him incredulously, and then dissolved into outright laughter. Michael, wavering between mortified self-loathing and sudden excitement—James was _laughing_ , amused and unshadowed and vibrant—attempted to apologize once more, but ended up laughing too, as James tried to talk, shook his head, and just lay there tangled up in the blanket and Michael’s arms, eyes dancing.

“I’m glad my hunger entertains you,” Michael told him, and it was even true.

“Sorry…!” James tried to keep a straight face. Lasted about two seconds. The corners of that mouth lost the battle first, twitching. And then the rest of him gave up and laughed, too. Michael watched, and thought that maybe possibly he might be feeling happiness also, someplace very deep inside, thawing out another frozen bit of his heart.

“My stomach clearly appreciates you as much as the rest of me does. Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine…trying to breathe…you’re fantastic. Room service? Or…”

“Or?” He’d slipped one hand under James’s blanket, in the middle of all the merriment. He’d been trying hard not to, not to put any pressure on James at all, but he’d not been able to resist seeking out bare skin, all flushed with delight, and James hadn’t objected. So now his right hand was sitting on one firm hip. Both of them seemed content with it there.

“Well…we could go downstairs. To the restaurant. I could…I did say I wanted to get out of the bedroom, for a while…”

“Yes. Of course we can. We can leave the hotel, or check out and go someplace else, if you want, if you aren’t—”

“Don’t,” James said, grinning, “don’t overreact, like that, all right? I meant what I said. And only what I said. We can spend some time out of the room, the suite, for an hour or so. And then come back. I want to come back. And try having the sex again. With you.”

“You—you would want to? Try again?”

“Absolutely yes. You didn’t think I’d give up on this—on us, on us wanting this, on me being yours, in bed—because one thing didn’t work, did you? If you did, don’t tell me, because that’s kind of stupid and I might have to hit you with this throw pillow, just so you know.”

“I…won’t tell you, then. You do mean it, though? You said you were feeling…off-balance. And I don’t want to—”

“I think it might help, actually. The way that you holding me helps, except more. So I can _know_ I’m yours. So I can feel you, everywhere, after. Reassurance, or something. You’re still looking at me strangely. Are you sure I shouldn’t hit you with the throw pillow? It’s potentially in favor of the idea.”

“I kind of feel like you already have,” Michael admitted, and James sat up a bit more and kissed him, decisively. “I love you. I should probably find clothes, if we’re leaving the room…”

Michael breathed in. Felt his lungs, his heart, start working again. James had kissed him.

So he nodded, and they got up off the sympathetic sofa, and he refused to stop touching James while James hunted for jeans and socks and paused, shirtless, to splash water over his face, through his hair.

“I’m sorry.”

James looked at him, their eyes meeting in the silvery distance of the mirror. The water twinkled in long eyelashes, turning them bright and dark at the same time, onyx and sapphire. None of the tear-tracks were perceptible, now, washed clean and carried away. But the eyes themselves remained slightly red. Hence Michael’s need to say the words, again. Always.

James lifted his eyebrows. Put his own hand, water droplets and all, atop Michael’s, on his hip, where long fingers’d been comforting themselves by staying tucked into the waistband of fortunate pants. Didn’t say anything, but turned around, so they ended up face to face, under the cool artificial gleam of overhead lights and metal bathroom fixtures. And then stood there smiling, quiet, rueful, happy, and sincere.

I love you, Michael told him, not out loud, only looking, memorizing every inch of skin, every shade of blue in those improbable eyes, wanting to keep them all safe in his heart forever. And James smiled a little more, and threaded his fingers through Michael’s: I know.

“You could go find me a shirt.”

“I…could. What sort of shirt do you want?”

“Oh, anything. One of the sweaters. Something fluffy.”

“James, that’s all your sweaters,” Michael pointed out, but headed in the direction of James’s suitcase anyway, reluctantly obedient. James was asking him for things.

Blue? Brown? The brown one was warmer, but he liked seeing James in blue. And that one was nearly the color of those eyes.

The third bag, the one he’d packed very carefully with the _other_ things they sometimes liked James to wear, or to feel, or to experience, was perched perilously close to the edge of the luggage rack. Distracted by the various sweater options, he bumped it, accidentally.

“Fuck!”

“What?” James said, from the bathroom.

“Nothing! Never mind!” Rather impressively, a testament to his own packing abilities, not much had fallen out; he collected a few items—some of which James knew about, and some of which he didn’t—and tossed them back into the bag, and tried to think about later and not think about later all at once, and failed utterly.

He had no idea what James would want. If James would want. That’d been part of the point, of course, of this mini-vacation—a chance to experiment, an interlude in a space that wasn’t the everyday—but despite James’s words Michael wasn’t sure he could bring himself to test out any of those experimental purchases, now.

He caught sight of one specific item. Hesitated.

This one wasn’t new. They’d even mentioned it, earlier. It winked at him, all black leather, alluringly.

James had said, the first night they’d ever used it, that he’d felt much more _Michael’s_. Intensely, erotically so.

James might want that feeling, that assurance, now.

He turned around and discovered blue eyes and mischievous hair directly behind him, and barely managed to avoid knocking everything off the luggage rack a second time.

“Sorry! I thought you heard me. Was that why the profanities, earlier?”

“You—um, yes. I might’ve dropped some things. You’re still shirtless.”

James raised both eyebrows at him, eloquently. “You do appreciate that, sometimes…”

“Yes,” Michael told him, “yes, I do,” and then started to reach out and pull him closer, and realized that he was still holding black leather in one hand when James looked at it, and the eyes went wide for a different reason.

“You…want to…you want me…now? I’m not sure I can…I’d try if you asked me to but…”

“No!” The automatic answer didn’t help; James now looked confused, and an ember of hurt flared, and faded, in the ocean depths.

“You _don’t_ want me…”

“No, I—James, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I do want you. And I want you like this. But not right now. I know you want to get out of here, for a while. You asked. And I said yes. Because I’ll always say yes, when you ask.” He put his other hand on James’s shoulder, inches below his own. Coaxed James closer, into leaning against him; slowly, he thought, like inviting a frightened little animal, all wary fluff and huge eyes and scared prickly claws.

But James breathed out, after a moment, and some of the tension eased away, departing from compact muscles, leaving the room. He didn’t say anything, though, so Michael kept talking. Maybe one of the words would magically be the right one.

“I want you to tell me when you’re feeling unsure. I don’t want you to offer if you don’t honestly want this. And I want you to tell me if there’s ever anything you need. Or even things you just _want_. You can want things, James. Or not want things. And that’s okay. All right?”

After a second, James nodded. Tipped his head against Michael’s shoulder, shut his eyes, but smiled, a lopsided, half-wry expression that made Michael’s heart skip a beat. “I do love you, you know.”

“I know.”

“And I know that, about telling you things, about wanting…I mean, you have seen me buying coffee, I want pretty much all the things…”

“I know that, too. Sometimes with peppermint.”

“Peppermint is delicious. It tastes like Christmas, except all the time. I think sometimes I just…I’m not good at asking, when I’m scared. I was…I could tell you about…consequences. But not right now, I think. Maybe later. I wouldn’t mind telling you. I never really have, have I?”

“Um…no. Not very much. You can tell me anything. But only if you want to. I want you to feel comfortable, with me. I’ll listen if you want to tell me. But I won’t ask you to, if you’d rather not.” He ran his hand along James’s arm, over sparkling freckles, red and gold beneath the light. Like Christmas, he thought, amused.

“I do want to, then. So…if you weren’t thinking about sex, at least not this minute…what were you thinking, with that?”

“Oh…never mind, it was probably a stupid idea—”

“Tell me anyway. I usually like you having the ideas.”

“All right…well…you said…you wanted to feel like you were mine, right? Like you…belonged with me?”

James nodded. Raised an eyebrow, inquisitive: curiosity. Hope, possibly. Recovery, or at least a part of the way there.

“Then…” He mentally crossed all his fingers. Held out the slim scrap of leather, dark against his palm. “If you want…only if you want…if we go down to dinner…you could wear this.”

James blinked. “I…in public. You want—”

“No! I mean, yes, kind of. But…” They both did know the potential consequences of that. The fallout, if someone happened to capture a snapshot of James, wearing a collar, in public, with him. “You did bring that sweater. The one with the—you know, it sort of zips all the way up…” He waved a hand, somewhere in the vicinity of his own throat. Prayed, wildly, to any listening deity, that James would understand what he was asking, and why.

James blinked again. Then began, slowly, to smile. “I did. I could do that. I could want to do that.”

“…you could?”

“Well, not on a daily basis. But…right now…yes, I could. You were asking; do _you_ want me to do that?”

“I…think so? Yes?” Reaffirmation. Surety. For them both.

“Yes, then.” James licked his lips. Stopped leaning into Michael’s side, and stood up on his own, but without moving away. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“James,” Michael said, helpless not to, and the seawater eyes met his, layers like tropical oceans, complex swirls of sunwarmed tides and deep cool eddies underneath. James smiled up at him, and the expression made it up through all the waves and stayed there floating on the surface.

“Come on, I am offering. Because I want to. Is this fine, or do you want me on my knees?”

“You—I very definitely want you on your knees, but I think that’s later—just stay here, for now. And I love you.”

“I love you, too.” James didn’t move, waiting, and Michael breathed in and out and slipped supple leather around the beckoning line of that throat and then left his hand there, adding weight to the presence.

James licked his lips again.

“Is that—are you—all right?”

“Oh yes.”

“Really?”

“It’s like…stability. Security. You’re here and I’m yours and you want me to be. All yours. Not his, not anyone else’s. _Yours_.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Michael informed him, and maybe that came out a little too much like a possessive growl, and maybe James laughed, but then Michael was kissing him, so the laughter turned into very acceptable moans instead.

“Absolutely mine. Here, put your sweater on, I’m buying you dinner.”

“But you were the one who was hungry, I should—”

“Aren’t you? And no, I should. I’m still apologizing to you, you know. This is me apologizing.”

“With dinner?”

“You didn’t answer the question, and yes. And also with this.” He curled a hand around the back of James’s neck. A gesture. Assertion.

James stared at him for a second, and then remembered to form words. “I…maybe? Not really, right now, but…if there’s food around I might feel differently?”

“I want you to eat, James.” His heart hadn’t fully recovered. It contracted, sharply, at the idea of James being that wounded, that emotionally disoriented. Enough to not want food. Enough to not be hungry.

He’d have to be vigilant. More vigilant. James couldn’t not eat. So Michael would just have to ensure that he did, whenever he was feeling insecure or heartsick or alone, whenever Michael hadn’t done enough to support him.

James blinked, no doubt startled by the forcefulness in his tone. But the surprise melted into comprehension, in those eyes. “Yes. I mean…yes, sir.”

“Already?”

“With you keeping your hand there, yes. But…you don’t have to worry. Not about that. I’m not going to let myself starve. I _like_ food. And you can make dinner for us next week if you want, and I’ll appreciate it, but that’s because I appreciate your cooking anyway. Not for any other reason. Better?”

The eyes were smiling at him, clear and open and blue, and James could evidently read his mind, because James was extraordinary in every possible way, and that was somehow the most comforting recognition of the night: James did know him that well. Wanted to take care of _him_. Even now.

James thought about his own answer for a second, and then added, while Michael was failing to locate words, “I probably should’ve called you sir, a few more times, in there. I kind of feel like saying it. Sorry.”

“For…what, again?”

“Um…I don’t actually know. I love you. Are we going to dinner? I promise I’ll eat something. And you can hold my hand. I like you touching me.”

“I like touching you.” He grabbed the patient sweater out of James’s bag, where it’d been waiting for them to get around to remembering, and handed it over. Collected hotel-room keys, various wallets and mobile phones and other accoutrements, and James’s hand in his, and got them both out the door.

And dinner was perfect. Not flawless, of course, not when sapphire eyes looked at him out of faintly red settings, or when Michael caught himself staring at James’s bent head, over the menu, and struggling not to order every damn thing on the page and request that James eat it all.

But perfect regardless. In the small things, the spill of lamplight over the wood of their table, the wool of that grey sweater protecting their secret, the way James glanced up and smiled and offered, “They have miniature pizzas, with pineapple, even, I could want that, I like pineapple…” and Michael found himself smiling back, heartbreakingly relieved.

The way that James set his hand on the table, halfway between them, after they’d ordered. Michael reached out and wrapped his own hand around, not James’s fingers, but that tempting wrist, and the glorious eyes turned enormous, through the closely-knit gold of the light.

James started to say something, looked from Michael’s hand to Michael’s face, stopped. Licked his lips. Even the air changed, drifting nearer expectantly.

“Everything all right, James?” He let the question hang in the air. Innocently. Watched the rise and fall as James breathed.

James was rescued from having to reply by the arrival of food, impressively and rather inconveniently swift. Michael had to thank the waiter, because James was staring at him in some sort of distracted haze of arousal and apparently wasn’t going to talk any time soon.

Excellent, he decided.

He let go, considerately, so that James could eat. He wanted James to consume food, after all. James blinked at his freed hand, several times, and then seemed to figure out that he could move it.

Michael waited until they’d mostly finished, James relaxed and unsuspecting and cheerfully in the middle of the ongoing Star Wars versus Star Trek debate that only was another way to say I love you, and then moved his foot over, under the table. Used it to pin James’s to the ground.

James froze, mid-sentence, and dropped his fork, fortunately on the table.

“Problem?”

“I…you…that…”

“That’s not a sentence, you know.”

James opened his mouth, and then didn’t say anything at all, when Michael put a little more effort into holding him down.

“You were saying something about Han Solo and Captain Kirk, I believe?”

“I…”

“You could keep talking. Or we could be done, and I could take you back up to the hotel room and remind you again. Mine.”

“Oh god,” James said, a little desperately. Good.

“Unless you want dessert. Or your peppermint coffee. We could stay down here, in public, like this. In the restaurant, with all the people, waiters coming over to talk to you, and none of them knowing what you’re wearing, under there, none of them seeing it. But you know. And I know. No one else gets to know, James, how badly you want this, to do this, to walk around wearing what you’re wearing for me.”

“Yes…” James was practically trembling, on the other side of the table. But not out of fear. Those darkened eyes, those flushed cheeks, said _want_ , and so did the scurrying beats of James’s pulse, when Michael picked that unresisting hand back up in his.

“You want to say something else, don’t you? One more word? But you know you can’t call me that in public, not where anyone could hear. And you’re trying so hard to be good, and not say it, aren’t you?”

“Michael,” James whispered, and then, “ _please_ ,” and Michael grinned at him, a promise, and tugged on the hand. “Come on, then. Up. Back to the room. I think you deserve to be rewarded, for this.”

James stared at him, eyes all blue and black and tumultuous with need, for a while. “I’m…not sure I can stand up…or, more accurately, I’m not sure you want me to stand up, right now, and walk out of here…”

“Oh, I sympathize. Trust me. But that’s exactly what I do want.” Even though he, himself, was already so hard it hurt. Every shift of position, any brush of fabric against heated arousal, threatened to push him over.

But James had to be even closer than he was. Which had been the plan, of course, but all at once he wasn’t sure he wanted that, either. Didn’t want to share James, like this, with anyone, even for the brief and endless trek across the restaurant and toward the elevators.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much he could do about it now. They’d just have to be quick.

He tossed an extravagant amount of money onto the table—overpaying by a hideous amount, but he wasn’t going to stop and count, and anyway dinner’d been worth it—and got James up and away from the table, despite blue eyes that looked at him with a combination of mortified embarrassment and profoundly willing surrender.

_Definitely_ perfect.

They had the elevator all to themselves—another couple’d attempted to hop on at the last second, but Michael’d smiled pointedly in their direction, and, flustered, they’d backed away—and so he could push James up against the far wall and kiss him, unhurriedly, leisurely, until James whimpered and squirmed and tried to pull him closer.

“Patience, James. Almost there.”

“Not soon enough,” James muttered, and Michael wanted to laugh but instead closed his hand around both of James’s wrists and held them immobile and James gasped. “Sir…”

Michael lifted an eyebrow at him. “We’re still technically in public, James…”

“There’s no one else here!”

“There might’ve been. It’s an elevator. It sees a lot of people.” The doors opened, with a cheerily conspiratorial chime. He walked James out into the hallway. Punctuated the movement with one quick snap of his unoccupied hand, hard enough to carry through layers of denim, over the delectable shape of James’s ass. James tripped over nothing physical, mid-step.

“You—you were the one who said we were in public—and you just—”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He tightened his grip on James’s wrists. “I didn’t do anything. At all.”

“You—but you did, you—Michael, _please_ —”

“Sorry. I think I should’ve said that better. I haven’t done anything _yet_ , to you.”

This earned a sound, accompanying the indrawn breath, that could only be described as a shocked and adorable squeak. Michael grinned.

Thank god their suite was only a few doors down; he’d never have made it, if they’d had any further to go. Not without tackling James to the floor of the hallway.

James no doubt wouldn’t mind, but the hotel staff—not to mention the other guests—might object, of course. Besides, they had their roles to play, here. And Michael losing every ounce of self-control upon meeting horizonless blue eyes wasn’t the goal, though it might happen regardless, if James looked at him like that one more time.

“You have one of the room keys, right? Door, James.” He released one of the wrists. James gazed at him, speechless.

“Yes, I know I could. I want you to.”

One blink. Two. And a shuddering breath, and James managed to pull the card key out of his pocket and wave it at the door, and then looked back at Michael.

“Very good. Come on, inside.”

He kissed that expressive mouth again as the door swung shut behind them, one hand burying itself in all the hair, holding James against him, holding James _up_ , because James appeared thoroughly ready to melt into his arms. He’d have to remember some of these things. For the future. Special occasions. Or any time he felt like casually putting a hand on James’s wrist, or tapping their feet together, on set.

The bedroom doorway, and he paused, one finger trailing down James’s cheek, across wet and newly-kissed lips. “Are you…you do want to, right? This isn’t…too soon?”

“Michael,” James said, unevenly, around breaths, determined, “please.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Entirely sure!”

“Then…I love you, you know that, right?…clothes off. Yours first. Then mine. Neatly.”

James looked like he might’ve wanted to laugh, at that last caveat, but plainly thought better of it, while slipping out of tight jeans and leaving them, folded, on the chair. And then he came back and touched Michael, hands sliding up under that crisp shirt, undoing buttons, easing fabric down over arms, inch by inch.

When James moved to his pants, and paused to smile up at him, Michael actually caught his breath, as all that brilliant happiness hit him at once, the best kind of impact.

James grinned, and made prompt work of Michael’s pants, and underwear. Neatly.

“You really are trying, aren’t you?”

This time James did laugh, sitting back on folded-up legs, hair curling merrily into his eyes. “Just because I usually throw your clothes across the room…”

“Yes, you do. You do want…I mean, you, listening to me…like this…” He put a hand on James’s head. Combed wisps of hair back from that face. “You said it was about stability, earlier. Does this help?”

“Yes.” Simple honesty, delivered instantly; no wavering in that tone. “I also said off-balance, and this…knowing what you want, being good, for you—because I want to, and it is about both of us—this’s like finding my feet, again. With you there to hold me while I stand up. Or something. This isn’t the best time to ask me for an extended metaphor. Can I kiss you?”

Michael had to swallow, before he could talk. “I love you. So fucking much. And your extended metaphors. I’ll always hold you, if you need it. And yes. Of course yes. Do you want to get up, or should I—”

At which point James leaned forward and brushed tongue-moistened lips over the tip of Michael’s cock, and Michael’s question ended in the blankness of surprise.

“I didn’t say where I was planning to kiss you. Sir.”

“James—you—did I just say I love you? Because I might need to tell you again. You’re incredible. You said you were liking this…that it was what you—what we both—wanted…”

“It is.”

“So…all right, then…you remember we did some shopping, last week…”

“I was _there_ when we did the shopping last week.”

“Did I say you could be sarcastic, James?”

“You like me being sarcastic, sir.”

“True.” He did. This was _his_ James, laughing and unafraid and teasing, willingly ceding all that control, on his knees with Michael’s hand in his hair and Michael’s collar around his neck, but doing it all with a cheeky grin.

He liked watching James end up speechless and shivering in ecstasy, also, of course—and that was the ultimate goal, especially tonight—but this was the person he’d fallen in love with, looking back at him, eyes all lit up with delight.

Not broken. Not frightened, not feeling lost. His, and gladly so.

“I know you were there. The _first_ time I went shopping.”

“The first—you went back? We didn’t buy enough things?”

“I might’ve noticed you looking at some different things. You know you can always ask me, if you’re interested in something else…”

“Oh, god. What did you buy? Because I’m pretty sure I can’t take the pink feather-duster things seriously, I’ll start snickering—”

“Not those. Although I was kind of tempted to hide one in your suitcase. Stand up and bring that other bag over here.”

“Hmm,” James said, but flowed gracefully back to his feet, one uninterrupted movement. Michael, watching, felt his mouth go dry.

“Anything in particular you had in mind? Since you did the extra shopping?”

“Um…I’m not sure. Are you in the mood for…something more familiar? Something we know you like? Or something new?” He touched James again, because he had to, couldn’t go another second without making a connection between them. His hand wandered up one arm, played with the buoyant waves of hair at the base of James’s neck, where it looped possessively around his fingers. He set those fingers over body-warm leather, the only bit of clothing James had left. Felt the answering smile all through his bones.

“I think you can try something new, if you want to. Whatever you were looking forward to. And if it doesn’t work, you can always spank me. Sir.”

“Oh, I can?”

“Oh…sorry, sir.”

“Love you. And yes, I can. And I will, if you want that. For now, though…since you said I could…how do you feel about this?”

“…oh. Wow. Okay. That…definitely is something new. And kind of kinky even for us. I never knew you had those fantasies.”

“I never did, until I saw you looking at it. And blushing. Do _you_ have those fantasies, James?”

“Not until I saw it…” James, fascinated, seemed unable to look away from the length of the cane, in Michael’s hand. “I…honestly, I don’t know. I think yes…but…”

“But?”

“I’ve never done this before. I’ve never even thought about—yes, I am saying yes, all right, just—not too hard? At first?”

“Are you sure? I mean about the yes. We don’t have to. Not if you’re not one hundred percent certain you want me to.” He took a step closer to James. Who breathed in, reached out, and touched, not the rattan, but Michael’s hand, over pale hardness. Traced his own fingertips over Michael’s skin, knuckles and lines and the spaces where fingers fit together. Feather-light. Simmering and erotic.

“I’m sure.”

Michael looked at him, standing there beside the antique bed in the golden glow of the bedroom, contemplating the suggestion, intently. Hair, bronzed by the light, fell into his face; as if sensing Michael’s gaze, James glanced up. Blue eyes caught his, and suddenly Michael was the one who couldn’t breathe, or look away.

James licked his lips again. The smile, from earlier, came back and played in the ocean tides, in those eyes. “Were you waiting for something, then? Would you like me to ask?”

“Oh, my god.”

James contemplated this for a second, head tipped to the side, thinking. Then took a step back, over to the closest bedpost, where it spiraled giddily toward the ceiling. Put one hand on the antique wood. “If we’re going to do this, I think I’d like the support…”

“You…you want me to…tie you to the…”

“Only my hands. I can stand. You can make it literal ties if you want; I know you brought at least one. And I kind of like the idea of you trying to wear it in public, after this.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Michael said, and then, “James,” and then, “turn around, both hands on the bedpost, and don’t move,” and tied the fastest knot he ever had in his life. James tugged once, checking, and grinned at Michael, over his shoulder, when nothing gave way. “Perfect.”

“Yes, you are. _Really_ sure?”

“Michael,” James said, patiently, “I just asked _you_ to tie _me_ up and use the cane on me.”

Michael, who’d already opened his mouth, promptly forgot everything he’d been going to say, faced with that sentence.

James peeked at him again, through a wayward fall of tumbling hair. “I love you.”

“I…I love you, too. So damn much. All right. Yes. Um…I want you to count for me. Only ten. All right?” He paused, to brush the hair out of James’s eyes; touched his lips to James’s temple, briefly, sealing the gesture with a kiss. James was smiling; he could see it. Could feel it, too, inside.

“Yes,” James said. “Sir.”

Not too hard, he thought. Not enough to hurt. Neither of them wanted James to be hurt.

They both gasped anyway, at the first impact, smooth wood cracking against defenseless skin.

“James,” Michael said, a little desperately. James collected both breath and balance, after a second, and said, “One.”

“You—you—you’re incredible. In case you don’t know. Are you—do you want—more?” He’d tested it on himself, on one leg, while James was off filming, the morning after he’d bought it. He’d had to; he couldn’t not know what he might be doing to James. So he knew what James had to be feeling, the odd double heat of it, initial sting followed by deeper warmth. The very helpful salesperson’d explained, knowledgeably, that that was one of the selling points, among devotees.

“Yes, please. Are you going to ask that after each one?”

“Um…no. Harder? Not as hard? Or was that…good?”

“The last one. Good, I mean. For now. Maybe a little harder later, but…”

“Not yet.” He touched that first pink line, already fading but still visible across that deliciously shaped bottom, offered up to him. “Only if I decide you can take more. You can ask, and I’ll listen, but it’s my decision, and I’m not going to hurt you. Understand?”

He could hear James breathing more rapidly, at that phrasing, at the tone. Good.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Hold still, then.”

Two. Three. James started panting, softly, at four, tiny gulps of air that couldn’t possibly be enough. Michael hesitated. Watched those fingers curl and tense helplessly, fastened to the solid sturdiness of the bedpost.

It _was_ different. Something darker. Visceral. He looked at the length of pale wood in his hands. It’d warmed up, with all the heat, each encounter with creamy skin. Or maybe that was just his imagination.

Again, and he watched the imprint of it rise to the surface, red and neatly outlined. When he fit one long finger into the line, curious, feeling all the heat, James moaned. “Five…”

“Still all right?”

“Yes, sir…” James shivered. Leaned against the post, as if needing the support. Those legs, spread slightly apart, were shaking, too.

“Tell me how you feel.”

“I…you want me to talk? I can’t…”

“Yes, you can. Is this good, for you?”

“Oh god yes.”

“How does it compare? I mean, you enjoy it when I spank you…” He rested one hand over James’s ass, cupping, squeezing, enough to add pressure to the lingering burn. “And I know you like it when I use your belt on you. Or the paddles. But this is different, isn’t it?”

James started to answer, stopped, just breathed, for a minute. Michael waited. Didn’t push.

“Yes. It’s…there’s something…deeper, I think. Harder, but not…physically. Or, um, actually, yes, physically, but mostly…it feels more formal. But in a good way. If that makes sense, sir.”

“I…think so, yes. You said you wanted to know that you were mine, in the bedroom. Completely. You want me to—to do this to you. All of this. Everything I want. Anything I want. And this is that, isn’t it? Something that’s _more_.”

“ _Yes_ ,” James said, and the relief in that voice was even clearer than the word, confirmation and affirmation and something that might’ve been gratitude at being understood. At Michael listening to him. “Yes. Please.”

“Yes, then.” He leaned in, to look at blue eyes, bringing them face to face. “But I’m still not going to hurt you. And you’re going to tell me, if we even get close to that. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Purely honest. He could see the truthfulness, reflected in the deepest waters of those eyes. That distant space of tranquility, under all the sparkling excitement.

“I love you.”

“Yes, you do.”

“James…”

“I love you, too. Sir.” Not quite an impudent grin, but almost.

“Better,” Michael told him, “but you know you didn’t answer, right away, when I asked you to talk. Earlier. So I’m not sure you really want this. Not badly enough to listen to me.”

James stared at him, looking shocked, for all of two seconds, and then smiled. “I’m sorry, sir. How can I convince you, then?”

“You can ask me. Ask me for this, James.”

“Please.” Still smiling, playing along, but meaning it, too. “You bought this…that…for us. I want you to use it on me, sir. Make me scream.”

“I—yes—we’re in a _hotel_ _room_ , James.”

This earned meaningfully raised eyebrows: yes, and?

“Oh…all right, then…if you want that…we _are_ in a hotel room. So yes, but also no.”

James blinked, suddenly less playful, more confused. Good.

“If we’re doing that, I’m going to gag you. Still asking?”

James opened his mouth, shut it again, and finally managed, “Yes…”

Michael sprinted across the room, tossed half his clothing onto the floor during the hunt for his other good tie, ran back to James, stopped. “If you…I said I want you to tell me if this hurts, or if you think it might start to hurt, or—”

“Yes?”

“Um…okay. Here.” He grabbed the hotel pen, off the table. Fit it into James’s fingers. James looked mystified, for a second, and then smiled.

“So I can throw it at your head, if I need to stop?”

“Well…yes?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Can I…?”

“Yes, sir.” James shut his eyes, briefly, while Michael’s hands moved. Blue silk, red lips, exotic-spice freckles; Michael bit his own lip, hard enough to distract himself. Necessary.

“All right?”

James nodded. Opened his eyes, adding even more blue to the world. Around them, the old-fashioned furniture, the white walls, the quiet world, hummed with expectance. Quickening.

“We said five more, right? Still okay?” He’d been trying to make the first ones light, and he’d succeeded; pinkness bathed all the freckles, in those places, but only the last one had retained even a hint of red, and that was fading, too.

James made a rather complicated expression in response, clearly reading his mind again.

“Um…Harder, or not as hard, or about the same?”

James sighed, out loud, and visibly waited for Michael to figure out the problem with that question.

“Oh, sorry, phrasing—um, about the same?”

A small shrug, both eyebrows.

“Okay…harder?”

This time James nodded, but only once.

“Not too much harder?”

More nods. Laughter, behind the eyes, along with the affirmation. Okay.

“Okay,” he said, out loud, and stepped back behind James, out of sight, into position. Trailed a hand down the length of James’s spine; felt muscles quiver, at his touch, waiting breathlessly.

James didn’t quite scream, despite his earlier comment. But it was close.

“Good?”

Nods, again, though James didn’t turn around to look at him. Didn’t throw the ridiculous hotel pen at him, either. They could keep going, then. So he did.

James cried out, into the gag, after the third one. Legs shaking. Head tipped forward against the supportive wood. Michael paused, and touched him, and felt the inhale travel up through his fingertips, everywhere.

“So amazing,” he said, because it was true, because James would hear him, needed to hear him. “I do love you like this—I mean, I love you always, you know that—but this…you giving me this, letting me see you this way, being mine, James, all of you—you are amazing. And I love you.” And then, just because he could, because it was a brilliant idea, dropped to his knees and kissed James, there, over the lines and marks he’d just been leaving, tongue caressing each burning welt over no-longer-pale skin.

James made a sound he’d never heard before. Trembled, in place.

“Shh,” Michael said, and kissed him again, and then got back to his feet. “Two more, we said. You can do that, you’re doing so well, you’re so good, for me…”

He could hear James breathing, small inadvertent sounds with each gulp of air, but no objections seemed to be forthcoming. Four. And then five.

And James was panting, hips twitching even after the impacts ceased, rocking forward against the satiny pillar of the bedpost.

“James? We’re done. You’re done. Still all right?”

Only a broken little moan, in answer; Michael walked around to his side—didn’t think James noticed, not with those closed eyes, those ragged breaths—and watched him move, cock swollen and leaking and leaving messy traces with each delicious shudder against unyielding wood.

“James,” he said again, very softly, and the jewel-blue eyes flicked open, at that tone, wide and fighting both dismay and arousal. Michael smiled, displaying teeth. The eyes got even wider, above the gag.

“If you need to come, that badly…I think you should. Like this. Get yourself off for me, James. On the bed.”

James tried to say something, couldn’t, and made a sound that was almost a sob, behind the fabric, eyes huge and pleading.

“Yes, you can. You just were. I’m giving you permission. Keep doing what you were doing. Make yourself come.” He set a hand on James’s bottom, nudging him forward, making that hungry cock rub along the bedpost one more time. James blinked, rapidly, and the tears spilled over, darkening long eyelashes, but those freckled fingers kept their grip on the pen, and when the hips shifted forward again they moved of their own volition, without Michael’s hand for encouragement.

“Good,” Michael told him, “faster. More,” and James buried his face in the crook of one arm, shaking, but did as commanded, thrusting those hips against the hardness of the bedpost, and when Michael pinched the curve of his ass, not hard, James shuddered from head to toe, and the rhythm changed, desperate now, about friction and sensation and release, James sinking into mindless pleasure, quivering between Michael’s hand and the cool inflexibility of the furniture.

“You can,” Michael whispered to him, this time, and then had one more idea, and used his free hand to slip the cane between parted thighs, and higher, not trying to push James off his feet but forcing him onto his toes, riding the weight.

James was moaning, or maybe sobbing, completely abandoned and uninhibited; Michael breathed, warm against the shell-pink curve of one ear, “Come for me, now,” and the hips jerked, once, twice, frantically, and James tensed impossibly everywhere and then collapsed against the bed, held up by the ties, by the bedpost, by Michael’s supporting arms.

“Oh, James,” Michael whispered, because he didn’t have any other words, only sheer awe, and then tugged anxiously until the knots around those wrists and that mouth came loose, and somehow got them both onto the bed, James limply compliant, falling into his lap without a single dissenting movement.

“James? Look at me? Please? Come on…”

James shook his head, and buried his face more deeply in Michael’s chest, and made another sound. Not quite crying, but close.

“Okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you. I love you. I’m here. Deep breaths, James, please.” He stroked a hand over James’s back, comforting all the scattered freckles. “Was that—no, never mind, I’m not asking you to talk yet. That was…unbelievable, you know. I never even imagined—James? Are you—don’t cry, please, or cry if you need to but please—eventually, when you’re ready—talk to me, too. Why are you crying? Did I—did you not want to?”

A small headshake, against his chest; Michael wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean. James obviously realized the problem, as well, because, after a second, words emerged, too. Shaky, but understandable. “No. I mean…I did want to. It’s not that…”

“All right. I believe you. Then what is it?”

“I don’t know,” James said, and actually laughed, unevenly, through the tears. “I just…I don’t know. I did tell you I wanted more, I wanted to feel like I was yours, and you…god. I feel…I don’t know how I feel. Good, I think. Kind of weightless. Hollow. But good.”

“Um…okay.” He wasn’t entirely convinced, not given those adjectives, but James was looking up at him, now, and smiling, sunlight beneath wet ocean waves.

“What about you? I thought you would want to—I mean, I did, you know I did, but you—”

“I do want to. I want you. You doing that, for me, the way you look, when you come, when I tell you to…I almost did, too, you know. Just watching you.”

“Really?”

“Really, James. You have no idea how spectacular you are.” He ran a hand through James’s hair, damp with sweat now, but still trying valiantly to stand up in every direction. James let out a contented hum, in response.

“You didn’t, though. Why not?”

“Why not—I was worried about you! I want to take care of you, James, you know that. I’m always going to make sure you’re all right. You…are, right?”

“Yes.” James sat up enough to kiss him, lips wandering softly across his, sweet and warm and slightly salt-flavored, from the tears. “I’m wonderful. And you…you’re wonderful, too. You could let me make you feel wonderful. If you want that.” Punctuated by a tiny tease of tongue, an invitation, a tempting nibble at the corner of Michael’s mouth.

Michael paused. Looked at blue eyes, very bright and earnest and sincere, as they looked back into his. No fear. No trepidation. Only happiness, and joy, and love.

He meant his answering kiss to be equally gentle, and it started that way, but James parted his lips a little more and sighed, and somehow Michael found himself invading that tantalizing mouth, one hand still wrapped into all that hair, holding James in place to be explored and plundered and tasted by Michael, everywhere.

James moaned, into the kiss. Incredibly sensual, languid and malleable, in his arms, as Michael’s tongue devoured each hidden space, finding all the remnants of fallen saltwater and sweeping them away and replacing them with the taste of himself, so that James could feel him with every liplick, each swallow.

They’d rolled over—when had that happened? And how? He hadn’t meant to push James down on the sheets, not when all those marks over abused freckles had to be throbbing—and he was lying atop James, now, weight pinning that smaller body to the bed, legs pushing James’s knees apart. James moved, readily accommodating, smiling as Michael deepened the kiss; he stopped long enough to say, “James, can I have sex with you now?” and James laughed, elatedly, sound echoing into the night. “Yes _please_.”

“Oh thank god.”

When he slid one finger between reddened curves, James sighed. Seemed to relax, even further, with the suggestion of fullness. Michael paused again. Thought about that. And James’s choice of adjectives, a few minutes before.

“Turn over?”

“What? Sorry.”

“On your stomach. Please.”

“Oh…that way? Really? All right…”

“That way _eventually_. I have something in mind. Don’t move.”

“I wasn’t planning to…wait, you have _what_ in mind? Not that I’m going to argue.”

“I know you’re not.” He came back. With the lube. And extra towels. James, displaying splendid flexibility, twisted halfway around to stare. “What—”

“Hips up, for a second. I’m just trying to protect the bed. We have to sleep here, later.”

“You—how much of that do you think we need for—oh. _Oh_. You want to—oh, my god. Michael…”

“Yes? No? Can I try?” James had said weightless, before. Hollow. This might help, with that. Might let James feel tethered to the world, to Michael, again.

“Um,” James said, wide-eyed. “Um, yes, but…you said I should tell you if I wasn’t sure, about anything…”

“You’re not?”

“I…you can try, we can try, but…I’m just not—I’m not that, um, large a person! And you have impressive hands!”

“Impressive?”

“You know what I mean!”

“All right, yes. I do. But I can try?” He mostly just wanted James to keep talking. So that he could listen to James being here, so confidently, with him.

“Yes, you can try…” James sighed again, into the friendly sheets, when Michael slid one finger between his legs, stroking slickness into him, around that tight rim. “That feels…cold. But that’s kind of nice, right now…”

“Oh. Um…how sore are you? Exactly?”

“Not very. This is probably a good time for you to try, actually, I feel all…happy. Tired, but happy. Oh—!”

“Too fast?” Maybe James hadn’t been expecting the second finger quite so soon. He leaned over and kissed James’s back, the small swirl of freckles over one shoulder blade, in penitence.

“No, you’re fine. You can…do more. Sir.”

“…really?”

“Mmm….yes. It does help.”

“Then you can say it whenever you want to.” He eased the third finger in more slowly, deliberately, feeling muscles flutter and give way and accept the intrusion. James’s breathing caught, stuttered, calmed again.

“That…”

“There?” He moved the fingers, carefully. Heard James gasp again. Decidedly there, then.

“More?”

“Yes, sir…”

More movement. More pressure, over that bundle of nerves. Even strokes. James let out a whimpering little cry, something that was almost Michael’s name but shivered off into high-pitched wordlessness. “Please…”

“You can’t, again, can you? This soon?”

“I…don’t know, I don’t think so but I feel—oh, _god_ —”

“You said you were feeling hollow, before. Empty. Is this better?”

“Michael…”

“I love you, James. All of you. Do you believe me?”

“I—yes, yes, I do, I know you love me, please—”

“Please what?”

“I don’t know!”

Michael nearly laughed. Looked at his own hand, for a minute, and then slid fingers back out—heard the correspondingly deprived moan, into the bedclothes—repositioned, spilled out even more lube. Moved them back.

James stopped breathing.

“Is four all right, then?”

James didn’t seem able to talk. The smooth light, from the lamps, poured itself over all that skin, liquid gold and red lines and white cotton sheets and the discarded items of clothing on the floor, and the universe narrowed and expanded, the two of them alone in the bed, the entire world.

He tried moving the fingers, experimentally. James gasped.

“So you do like four…can we do more? Or is this enough for now?” He wasn’t sure he could wait, truthfully. His entire body ached with the need to be inside James, to feel all that pliant warmth, to fill James up with himself and bring them together.

No reply, just unsteady breathing, no rhythm left at all; Michael told himself to breathe, too, failed to listen, and tried, “James? I do want you to talk to me…”

This got a barely audible moan. Encouraging, if not quite what he’d been asking for. But James was still here. Hearing him.

With that thought, he tested the weight of his thumb against that entrance, so stretched and full for him already, James so opened up and submitting to it all, everything Michael asked him to do. Pushed, not hard.

James gasped again. This time there was a word, in the sound. “Wait…”

“Wait? Or stop?”

“I…don’t know. I…okay, you can try again but…oh—oh, god, okay, stop. Um. Pen. At your head. Sorry, sir.”

“Pen,” Michael said, laughing instead of panicking, because James could make him laugh even now, even here, fighting off all the incoming worry before it could begin to gather its weaponry to attack, “you’re fucking perfect, James, I love you. Are you all right?”

“I’m wonderful. You said I should tell you before it hurt, so I did. Or I am right now. I love you, too. Did you want to come here, though? I’d be even more all right with you here.”

“Yes. I—yes.”

“Michael…” James shivered, only once, when Michael slid into him, lying bonelessly across the bed, still on his stomach and pinned between sleek sheets and Michael’s weight. “You feel like…yes.”

“I feel like yes?”

“Exactly.”

“You feel like yes, too.” He did try to be gentle, considering everything they’d just been doing, the soreness he knew James had to be feeling everywhere by now. That resolution failed the instant James moved a hand and tapped fingers against his, and Michael collected those hands under his and pressed them into the mattress above James’s head, and James arched up against him. “That…yours, _please_ …”

“Mine.”

“Yes,” James whispered, “yes,” and Michael heard himself whispering it too, and suddenly the climax was right there, bursting through his whole body in a deluge of sparks, and James gave another tiny cry and tensed around him, and then they both collapsed, shaking, in the aftermath.

No one moved, for a while. Not either of them, not the bed, possibly not even the earth, arrested at the pinnacle of orbit, a moment plucked out of time.

“James,” Michael managed, at last.

“Mmm…”

“You…are you…was that…that was…”

“That was yes.”

“Yes.”

And then more quiet.

Some distant and dreamlike time after that, he remembered that he had legs, and got them to work, and coaxed James onto his feet and out of the collar—setting it carefully on top of James’s suitcase, in case they needed it, later—and into the shower. James wasn’t talking, much, eyes a little far away, euphoric. Michael talked to him, gently, as clearly and undemandingly as he could; touched him, trying to be an anchor, letting James kiss him randomly, or bury his head in Michael’s shoulder, or skim fingers in haphazard patterns over his back.

James did smile at him, after they made it back into the bedroom; Michael smiled back, and brushed the lips, lightly, with one finger. “Better?”

“I think so…”

“Good. Can you…bed? Please?”

James smiled again. Hopped onto the fantastic disaster they’d made of the sheets, and stretched out, and then, when Michael didn’t immediately follow, pushed himself up on an elbow, eyes curious, anxiety starting to creep out from the ocean depths.

“No, you’re fine. Just…sit up, would you?” He crossed the room, too. Settled down in the midst of all the pillows, and folded James into his arms. “Sorry. Not being clear. I want to talk to you. _With_ you. That’s all, okay?”

James considered this for a minute, and then, very obviously, decided that if that was going to be the order, then he wouldn’t mind listening.

“Um…all right. What about?”

Michael sighed, but only inwardly, where those eyes couldn’t tell. “Seriously, James. Please. I mean…yes, I want you, and I do want you, like this, everything we just did…” He knew the lip-lick was coming, that nervous little gesture; kissed that mouth, in the wake of it. “I wanted to ask you something. And I want you to be honest with me. Don’t say what you think I want to hear. Um…not only now. Always. In bed, or out of it. Tell me what you’re really thinking, okay?”

This earned a smile, breathtakingly sudden and clear as the starlight outside. “I already do. I always have. I did, tonight. You know that; you were there. Does that help?”

“Yes.” It did. Felt warm, inside his chest. Like happiness, there, surrounding his heart. “All right, then…it’s fine if you don’t want to answer. It’s kind of…personal.”

“More personal than everything we just did? Because I’m not sure you can top that. Possibly ever.”

“Oh…I can probably come up with something.” Which made James laugh, happy and speculative and intrigued. “I could take you shopping again…but seriously, you said, earlier, that you wanted to tell me. About some things. Those things. And I do want to know. You don’t have to tell me who or even what, not if you don’t want to—but you said there were consequences. If he wasn’t happy with you. Are there things I shouldn’t—things we should avoid? Like me leaving you alone? If there is anything, please tell me, all right? I don’t want to—I never want to hurt you. This isn’t about me hurting you. You know that, right?”

The eyes danced at him. “Well, only if I ask you to.”

“James…”

“No, I know what you’re asking. It’s _not_ about you hurting me. I don’t want you to hurt me. I want this—the way this feels, with you, this intense—but I know you won’t hurt me.”

“Good.”

“About the other things…I do want to tell you, I just…” James hesitated. Said one more word, very quietly.

“… _what_.”

“You _do_ know. You said you’d looked some things up…”

“I—yes, but I—you—you let him—no, I’m sorry, I’m not judging you, I’m not, but, James, you…” He ran out of words. Pictured James, and tried not to picture James, on his knees, vicious whip-marks lacing that cinnamon-cream skin.

“It wasn’t…” James nibbled on one long-suffering lip. Looked away, at the stoic feathery heap of the pillows, the voiceless shine of the lamplight on the walls. “I told you about the knife. In bed. That was when I…left. Before that…with the other things…it wasn’t even what he was doing, so much. He was good at it. At first. And I…it started as something I wanted, or I thought I did. I told you that, too.”

“You did…”

“And that was true. It really was kind of…a relief, to find someone who knew that I needed…to not be in control, sometimes. And I said intense, and it was. I would…I’d trust you with that, if you wanted to. Because you’d stop if it started to hurt, really hurt, I mean. And you’d take care of me, after.”

“Of course I fucking would! But I wouldn’t—James, you know I’d never do that to you, I wouldn’t, I—”

“I know. I love you.” James picked up Michael’s hand, in his. Wound their fingers together. Michael bit into his own lip. Didn’t cry. He had to be there for James. Anything James needed to say.

“I love you, too. Always. You said it started as something you wanted. At first. But he hurt you.”

“He…that was part of the consequences. That you asked about. That I should…stay hurt, because then I’d remember. I was…one time, I was…I wasn’t always tied down, for that, not if he didn’t think I needed it, but that time I was, I don’t remember why, and I asked for water, afterwards, I’d been crying and my throat hurt and…”

“He said no,” Michael whispered. His own voice shook, with anguish, with anger, with James’s pain.

“That was the day before I left. I thought I’d try one more time, one more day, maybe it’d been me and I’d done something that much wrong, but…it wasn’t me. I do know that. I promise you I know that.”

“James, I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to be. You weren’t there. I didn’t even know you, then.” James leaned a little more weight against him, despite the words; Michael tightened his hold, arms and legs and everything else that might hold James in place, there with him, beside him, in the imperfect and disheveled embrace of the bed.

“If I had been there, I’d’ve rescued you. I would have—”

“Swept in and carried me off in the night?” Amusement, lurking in the bruised-whiskey depths of that voice. “Maybe. I might even have gone with you. But…this is better, I think. I _did_ leave. On my own. And this, what we’re doing, together, this has nothing to do with him. I want this, with you, because I want _you_. I love you. Um…was that enough of an answer? I think we kind of got away from your original question.”

“You…god. James, you—” He touched one cheek, got James to meet his eyes, ocean-blue looking into lakewater-green. “You’re here. With me. You want me. You love _me_. James, do you have any idea how strong you are? How lucky I am, to be here, to be the one who gets to hold you?”

“But I love you!” James protested, now looking adorably confused, as if that weren’t precisely Michael’s point.

“And I love you. And you…you trust me. You _can_ trust me. You…I was so fucking scared, James. Earlier. When you said—you were feeling—and all I could think was that I’d failed you. I hadn’t—”

“You what?” James sat up, eyes all enormous. Shock. Bewilderment. They skewered Michael’s heart on pointed lances. Of course he shouldn’t’ve admitted to being scared. James needed him to be strong.

“Michael—no. Just…no. You—look at me. Come on. Please.”

He looked, because James was asking. Tried not to flinch, at all the love and fierceness and worry reflected there.

“You didn’t fail—you know, that’s kind of a horrible verb, we’re not going to use it, all right?—you _didn’t_. You _were_ there. You held on to me when I needed that—you’re still holding me, and I still want that, not because I’m hurting, just because I like you touching me, that’s all—and then you gave me what I’m pretty sure were the most impressive orgasms of my life, and yes I did use the plural, and then you took care of me, after. And you listened, when I said I might need to throw a hypothetical pen at your head.”

“Of course I—”

“You were careful, with me. You’re always careful. Because you’re you, you’re not him, you love me and I love you. And if something doesn’t work, then we know, and we won’t try it again, but I’m all right and so are you and we’re both still here. Understand?”

Michael stared. Couldn’t talk, absolutely breathless, captured by all the intensity, the astonishing passion, in the endless blue.

“Tell me you understand.” James kept looking at him, unwaveringly. Michael managed, a little weakly, to say, “Yes…”

“So you’re not ever saying that, or thinking it, again, then.”

“Um…no?”

“Good.”

“I…James?”

“Yes?”

“You…can you…use that voice in bed, sometime?”

James blinked, stared at him, then tipped his head back and laughed, joyously, sound echoing into the night. “You…oh, god, you want…I suppose I did say we could, on special occasions…yes, all right, if you’re asking, yes. Next time. I love you. Michael?”

“I love you, too…” Talking’d continued to be difficult. Might be the laughter. Or the tears.

James eyed him, grinned, flung both arms around him, and pulled them both down onto the bed, scattering all the pillows. They bounced away merrily, tumbling off the bed, and James held onto him, looking up at him, hands curling around his shoulders, legs entwined. Every inch of that compact frame was laughing, but the eyes were even warmer, something sweet and hot and private and true drifting to the surface for Michael to read.

“You told me you would’ve rescued me,” James said. “You would have saved me, if you’d been there. But you’re here now, and you do save me. Every day, every time I look at you, you do.”

“James,” Michael whispered, and kissed him, through lamplight and starlight and happiness, “I think you’re saving me, too.”


End file.
